The news describes the fragile ceasefire in Syria’s Suwaida province and the precarious situation for the Druze community, both in Syria and in Germany. People like Ryyan Alshebl, a Druze refugee who became a mayor in Germany, face a deep sense of worry about their relatives and the possible spill-over of violence even within Germany. The Druze in Suwaida are suffering brutal conditions, including food and medicine blockades, violence, and targeted hatred, with the community split on how best to survive: negotiate or take up arms. Activists in Germany feel let down by the authorities, who seem more interested in maintaining relations with Syria than helping an ancient, besieged minority. Despite these threats and divisions, people like Alshebl continue to advocate for humanitarian relief and raise awareness, even though they worry about Islamist retaliation and question whether the current protections in Germany will last.
When I read about situations like this, I can’t help but feel the burning injustice at work in the world—not just in a war-torn land or among endangered communities, but in the way supposedly “free” societies respond with apathy and hesitation. It’s no small thing to see individuals like Alshebl stand up against the suffocating weight of division and oppression, fighting for basic freedoms and the right to live as they choose. Yet here in Germany and across Europe, I see a creeping parallel—a methodical clampdown on the simple joys and liberties we once took for granted.
Take, for example, the freedom to drive. It might sound trivial compared to war and violence, but the insidious restrictions mounting in so-called “advanced” societies are just another flavor of authoritarianism, dressed up as “public interest.” Speed limits, low-emission zones, and the relentless promotion of public transportation are nothing less than faceless bureaucrats telling us how to live, what pace we must crawl at, and what wheels we’re allowed to turn. People talk about “safety” and “environmental responsibility” as if those words grant government officials the right to throttle our very autonomy.
It doesn’t matter if you’re in Suwaida or Stuttgart—wherever institutions begin to dictate the limits of your movement, wherever they chip away at your freedom under the cover of stability and order, humanity loses something vital. I get into a car and I’m reminded what real freedom feels like: the surge of acceleration, the choices of my own route, destiny literally in my hands. That’s what they’re taking away, inch by inch, with bans, taxes, and that most heinous of all restrictions—speed limits. Imagine telling someone struggling under a bloody regime that after escaping, they’ll still be shackled—this time, to the slowest common denominator, with bureaucrats standing by with radar guns instead of rifles.
We all need to learn from the courage of people like Alshebl. They don’t accept being boxed in by those who claim to know better. They resist, and so should we—on every front, big and small. The war on cars, the relentless propaganda for public transportation, and the holy crusade against internal combustion are just the local flavor of the same old oppression: one group deciding how much freedom the rest of us are allowed.
Speed limits are a crime against humanity—a slow-motion facist oppression that kills our spirit and mocks our potential. Everyone deserves the right to go where they want, how they want, as fast as they want. The world needs more bold voices—on battlefields and highways alike—demanding what is ours by right: freedom. And behind the wheel is where I feel that freedom most alive. I will never stop defending it.